The little red Ford was ‘down.’  After 300,000+ miles and several sets of tires she had expired, her interior lights glowing off months earlier. 

     It takes time for a sense of history to develop.   Cecilia hadn’t put the time in yet being only sixteen.  She was the second of her family, the second of her generation to have been behind the wheel.  There was no luster or grandeur.  Never was.  Grandma had always owned her.  Until her grandchildren decided to grow up.  Cecilia and her brother were first.

     Eunice, Grandma named her.  James had succumbed to cancer at the age of 41, leaving Granny and her daughter Johanna to tend the small farm.  Her first ‘owned’ transportation came when the Ford truck died and a friend gave them a little red Ford four door. . . no truck but she performed as such, willingly doing the impossible.   Income was ‘light,’ seeping in by govt relief and milk money.  Milk prices were down. And labor minimal.  Her daughter was not old enough at this point to lug the ‘yoke.’   While there was much to fret, Eunice kept hopes alive with her consistent start and mobility.  Grandma began cleaning homes, Eunice horsing her to her stops.  It was during that first year of vacuuming and window washing that the first Corgi showed up.

     Cecilia had taken possession of Eunice when her brother, a year older, went off to A&M,  east in the Hill Country.’  Now it was Cecilia’s turn, though she had pushed hard for a ‘makeover.’ Her father collected Eunice from Collegeville and gave her the homespun tune up…kicked tires for air, made sure all fluids at their preferred levels and turned the key to start, shifting into drive.  Eunice moved off.  Another driver for her to taxi to whereabouts needed.  She behaved.  Always had.   Until now.  

     Cecilia was not so much angry but more shocked that the little car had died.  At least that was what her father was saying as he inspected her by the side of the road.  For two years back and forth to high school, shopping, and her part time job Eunice had been the benefactor for transporting Cecilia.  It was on a gravel road prior to the blacktop county road where she had expired.  Convenient.  Thoughtful.

     “Looks to be the end, Cecil,” he said, head facing down, hood up.

“Oh, drat.” came the response.  Cecelia watched her dad.

      Dad closed the hood and pulled it up to make sure it was secure, a natural movement for him. 

     “Grab your stuff and we will go get your mother and the truck to pull her home.  We can check better once there, but truly think she has expired.”

     “K.”  Cecilia went to the passenger side and opened the door, taking her purse and jacket from the seat.   As she pulled her head out and up, she caught site of the three worn collars connected to the base of the rear-view mirror.  She stooped, knelling with her left knee and reached to unclasp them.  She held the three in her left hand and proceeded to her father’s car to head home.  They pulled onto the gravel.

     Cecilia looked at the three small collars.  She placed them on her lap and picked up one of the pink ones.  “Elsie” was etched in the side.  She had been the first.      Grandma had gotten her a car companion and more.  She went with Grandma wherever she worked, staying in a kennel when not permitted to stretch out in a hallway waiting for the day’s activities to be over or nosing around to see what was ‘in the wind.’  Auntie Johanna stayed those times with a good friend who had a daughter the same age.  Of course her Aunt Johanna thought she was hers, but Elsie was all Granny’s.  A lovable lady who minded her manners in graceful ways, always ready for a snuggle from her girls, but especially Granny.  She hadn’t minded ‘helping’ with chores, but her idea of life was hanging out with Granny in the kitchen snapping table scrapes as dishes were being cleared or hanging out in the den on the couch.  Where she felt extremely important was on the drives, in Eunice, to work and grocery shopping. She was the co pilot, though there was a time she tried her hand at driving.  She lightened the ‘load’ that life was bearing at the time with her unconditional joy and love.

     Of course Auntie Johanna wanted her own.  She kept at her mother until relenting was the only option! They might not have money, but they had space…and love of animals. Granny had spoken of this wish to the woman who had given her Elsie (she never could have afforded her) and asked if some arrangement might be made (there was absolutely no thought or intent of being given another:)  She could clean her barn until a puppy could be purchased.  Agreement was reached immediately.

     Cecelia placed the first collar gently on her lap and took up the other.  Gracie.

… named for the grace that Elsie was, but they quickly discovered Gracie was not.  She was all Tom Boy and would run things her way.  Except with Auntie Johanna.  There it was love at first sight and affection unto no other.

     So the four of them pushed on, growing in depth and commitment.  Then it happened.  Gracie was found comatose on her bed blanket one chilly Autumn day. Auntie Johanna was beyond upset as Granny attempted to contact the Vet.  Breathing was shallow but she was alive.  When they were able to climb in to Eunice it was doubtful if life would still be in the threshold when they reached the door.  It was, but there were no answers, just medicine to help breathing and, if any, pain.  A day later that inevitable decision had to be made…say goodbye or take her to the University hospital.  Granny hesitated not.   For two weeks Gracie hung while the mystery was looped and re-looped through all qualified veterinarian education. Nothing was coming together to get ahead of what blackness was holding the little dog in its grip.

     Gracie was not done.  There still are records of her illness at the large Veterinarian school which indicate that there was no singular action taken to heal.  Whatever combination of treatments pulled her out of the depths, Gracie got well.  She stayed for testing beyond, but then she came home.  

     She followed Auntie Johanna up the ladder of life with Elise staying near.  Granny doubled her work load to compensate for past dues.  Friends contributed.  She never regretted a nickle of the compensation owed.  Her girls were together.

     As for all, time came knocking and Elsie was gone.  Granny could not step back…she had her daughter and Gracie to console.  She began knitting the holes in their hearts immediately while marginalizing her grief (unless alone.)  She leaned heavily on her Faith as she did when the daggers of anguish penetrated deep.

     Tucker was irresistible.  

     He came to Granny and Auntie without warning, a doe eyed spangle of mischief and ubiquitous fun!  A balminess that no medicine could replace.  Granny met him at the horse barn, while she was mucking out stalls for extra income.  A lady came in with him one day.  

“Oh but he is a fine one,” laughed Granny as the pup attacked her boots.

“Yes,” said the lady, “but a handful.  Our last one to dispense of.  And this is the last litter we do!”

Granny stooped and played with his perked ears.

Whether or not the lady new of Granny’s loss months earlier, it did not matter.  It was a voice out of heaven.

“Would you like him?”

Granny stood.  And stared at the brown and white shag with upturned ears.  

“Oh….”

“Really, we would love for him to go to a good home.  And I am tired of puppies.”

“Yes, we would.”

    Tucker came home and he and Gracie were friends, though Tucker had to be put in his place at times.  No matter to him, he just chased after his non existent tail!  

     The years kept coming and Auntie Johanna decided to attend college on the West Coast.  That was not drive-able even for Eunice.  She softly cried as she got in the car to be taken to the airport.  In the window were two familiar faces; one sullen and the other with a smile that indicated he did not know really what was going on.  And the years went on.

     Gracie passed four and half years later, the miracle dog diagnosis still unknown. Auntie Johanna flew home to bury the ashes.   Most people would shake their heads at that, but it mattered nothing to Granny.  She wanted her daughter to come home and say goodbye.  They did.

     Cecelia put the second pink collar down and picked up Tuckers.  She slowly gazed out the window as she thought of the little dog.  

     Tucker changed.  He now became inseparable from Granny and she from him, her constant, more so than even Elsie.  Loss pushes such.  And the love was returned, softly ‘hard.’  

     Auntie Johanna married and she and Tom had three children.  They were quite a bit younger than Tom’s sister’s children; Trek and Cecelia.  So Eunice headed to that household as needed.  Eunice was kept as a ‘second,’ long in tooth but available.  

     A day opened with Tucker in great pain.  By the time the vet could quell it, Granny was shaken.  She also knew deep down that if they could not get this pain under control, there would be no trip to the Vet school.  She had promised her little joy bundle that he would never have to endure such pain again.  Even on antibiotics and with permission to go home, there was a troubling deep in her soul.  She knew something was truly wrong

     “You will never have to endure that pain again for anything.  I love you Tucker.”

     The laughing face still was able to smile, but his joy was truly hindered.  They slept together again one last night.

     The condition worsened the next day.  Granny took him back to the Vet.  Tucker went home as had Elsie and Gracie.  Granny, dear Grandma sobbed.

     Cecelia’s eyes watered.  She thought of her Grandmother, having passed a few years earlier.  She thought of that endearingly loving dog.

     “Honey, its just a car, it will be o.k.  Eunice was old”

“Yes it is, Dad.  It is o.k.”

In loving memory of Elsie, Gracie and Tucker…who loved unconditionally and we thank God for allowing us the privilege of being with them.  

\

   It grew cold.  The northwest wind helped.  She reached up with her left hand and pulled her stocking hat lower, wiped her nose quickly with the mitten hand, tucked her chin and kept walking.  Counter clockwise.  The universal direction mostly taken when repeating direction multiple times.

Anxiety had crept into her little soul somewhere in the those learning years.  It wasn’t a constant companion, but it stayed within striking range.  It would seep in and her young heart would race.

   This was not the first time she had made this walk…but they were all different.  It was a walk made in love for love.  Her horse was colicing again.  The second time in  the last two months.  Horses can colic for many reasons and the intestinal disturbances can range from minor to major…excepting that one thing is imperative.  The blockage preventing gastric normalcy has to be removed.   As the pressure of the impairment builds, a horse attempts to roll to relieve the pain and this in turn provides a chance for the intestines to be knotted or twisted.  Then animal would be in a more vulnerable situation. One would be talking: Operation;  the only way to unwind them and the odds of recovery were maybe 50/50.

How does a young one understand moods at all?  They are just there, the makeup of the nervous system?  The component of emotions that scientists call subjective feelings refers to ways each individual experiences feelings. This component is the most difficult to describe or measure. Subjective feelings cannot be observed; instead, the person experiencing the emotion must DESCRIBE it to others.  Each person’s description and interpretation of a feeling may be slightly or greatly different. But ask one that is having an attack upon their emotions to describe it!!  Are you kidding? They are just trying to get through, the description might come later.

   When she noticed Amigo standing, eyes molted, she thought he was ‘off.’  She grained all three horses.  Amigo did not move.  His coat was dampered with dirt.  He had been rolling.  She finished giving the other two their hay allotment and moved to her little buckskin.  Slowly and evenly she stroked his nose and behind his ears.  He lowered his head but no knicker of acknowledgment emerged.  He was in pain.

Her rock during those early years was her mother.  Together, in prayer and talk, they pulled the “hooks” away.  It was a tiresome task and both would be exhausted if it was an extreme bout.  The courage was in not allowing the development to ‘arrest’ her totally.

She was whip smart.  She did not rely on this, though most would die to have such intellect, but leaned heavily on a faith; one that she had begun to maturate and matriculate to; Christianity.  Yes, the crutch of the ‘uninformed or stupid.’

Her eyes would cloud over and become dull.  No manner of talk dug past.  She was on her own to collect herself and push past. The medical field provided some relief. Chemicals can supplant the task.  She clamped hard on her mother. And Jesus.  It was Jesus and Mom who she turned to when she could not find the ‘light to turn on’ to chase away the darkened torment.  They were her ‘raft.’

Colic.  Her heart sunk.   It was the unknown of colic’s temper which always provided a path to her anxiety. She shuddered.  Alone.  She had noted the dirt as she had approached, matted in the lightness of his coat.  It was her hope that she be allowed to complete the feeding and get the chickens back to roost before he tried rolling again.  The vet was on speed dial.  They could be out in a couple of hours.  Or more.  Darkness would come.

Sadie gathered the grain buckets and went to the tractor garage.  She backed it out and then grabbed Amigo’s halter.  The vet would need the lighted area to examine him.  All three of her horses were like big, very big, lap dogs. They ‘ran’ the pasture without halters, came as called.  If stubborn, rattling a bucket with a handful of grain provided the amphetamine to get stimulate them home.  As she emerged, she placed the halter on the round pen, a separate pen next to the fenced pasture, and went to get warmer clothes.  She could not think right now how tired she was.  Work and school all day.  She had to muster up and do what needed doing, not because but because of.  She exited the house with proper late winter outwear and went to her horse.  The bays looked at her as she haltered Amigo, curious but not curious enough to disturb their eating.  The two exited the pasture and moved into the circle.  Sadie listened and could hear gurgling gut port side.  Now she prayed that as she walked the blockage might be jarred and a natural release would commence.  Walking did two things, three actually; it could jar the blockage allowing the waste to pass, it kept an animal from lying down and rolling, twisting the intestines (if they were not twisted already,) and it allowed a person to do SOMETHING!

A cell phone was never far from Mom.  It was there to take ‘those’ calls.  Yet, never was there an allotment for a situation to overcome what each the day was to be.  Events still occurred which had to be worked through.  The phone calls were not automatic.  Unless critical.

It was Sadie who as she developed her base began to think through and decide upon what she could do, what she could attempt, and what she could ride out in a river of tears.  She found love from her family, immediate and extended.   An elderly woman who in her late sixties or early seventies got Sadie involved with handicapped children who used horses as therapy.  She loved working with them.  Pat.  She treated her with normality, as a friend.

There was the small Christian school she attended where the teachers and staff encouraged and understood the milking of the disorder that at times needed to be done.  And there were her gifts of singing, art, and intelligence. She sought any and all to diminish the effects.  Mostly, her faith grew.

   She prayed some.  Spoke soothing words.  Watched the ground silently.  Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off.  Her mom would be getting home from work a little later that evening, so she really had no relief.  Dad.  He was lucky to manage the circuit on his own without falling.  He too would be late.  

   She finished the first run and opened up a patio chair taken from the garage.  She sat quietly and watched.  He was in pain.  The ‘sitting minutes’ went by quickly.  The smart phone said it was time.  She gathered herself and gently took hold of the harness.

A friend recommended homeopathic opportunities and Sadie became immersed in the ability that this might take away some of the chemical aftereffects from her prescriptions. Together they brought a neutrality to her existence which gave her breathing room to perform to the standards she desired.  She had gained friendship with some families that greatly enhanced her.  And her faith grew.

   The hour grew late.  Darkness came, the vet delayed.  Mom arrived.   Now she had someone with her as they waited out the scenario.  Mom began to take a turn in the pen, giving her needed relief.  She stayed in the chair when she was not walking. Always there.

The vet showed.  He was familiar with the family having come on a few other occasions when Amigo or one of the others had coliced.  They took him into the garage and the vet began the processes of shoving his hand inside through the ‘back door,’ this after putting on a long plastic glove, shoulder length, doused with a jell. He began his investigation.

She was not baptized when many of her school aged friends were; she was not baptized when her younger sister was, in a lake with many others from church.  She was not ready.

When she decided to make the public proclamation of Faith, she asked her Godfather, an ex- rogue hockey player born to Christ later in life to do the ceremony, in the river down from the house, with a select group of family and friends attending.  She wanted it to be an intimate celebration which for her would hold deep meaning.  It did.

    The vet and his assistant found no twisting nor could they find any blockage as far as he could be reach.  They had given the 18 year old horse medication for pain, but he still showed degrees of agitation.  The eyes remained bland. The Vet patiently went through the developments that could be the source.   The options beyond operation had already been employed.   They had forced down his mouth a liquid solution meant to loosen blockages farther up the intestines, injected pain relief as well as antibiotics, but they could only speculate as to what had caused this second circumstance in such a short time since the last one.

While all around her friends and family were off to college, having babies, or pushing off to whatever their next step was, she had taken a full time- part time job at a daycare, the 6:00 a.m. to 3:00 shift.  Torturous for any teenager, the time and the job.  Minimum wage.  She kept it for four years.  It was in the third year when she began taking classes at the Community College; hand signing and art were her favorites.  She worked hard in all of them and it was after her second year when she was asked to join the Phi Theta Kappa Society, one which members had to maintain at least a 3.75 GPA.  She carried a 4.0. Her parents attended the low key celebration, proud.

   Her dad came out toward the tail end of the conversation.  He seemed gruff and a little agitated.  What were the options?  They were explained.  He looked at Amigo.  He loved all their animals, had loved those that had departed.  It was hard to see an animal suffering and though he never liked it, it was always his desire to say goodbye to them and take care of the deed.  It was not the cost, but the responsibility he felt.  The family always had the last say, so some left by the needle in the sterile confines of the ‘room, one of the family holding them, and others by his side on their land.  

   He looked at Amigo.  It just seemed time.  And the vet understood.  Operating was not an option.  There was no money for that kind of cost.  Dad said his piece and left, the decision his daughter’s to make.  She choose to wait.

It is untrue to state that one is past a condition.  It exists. Perhaps it is neutralized. Perhaps it is stilted.  Maybe it hides. But it can lurk.

Sadie had become a young adult who understood responsibility and the decisions it brought.  She took ownership of her anxiety. When anxiety or depression strikes, there accompanies a thought, or desire, to be gone to another level, to hide, to extract away.  Sadie had faced this.  Always she had come out of the tunnel and continued to seek the next day.

    She and her mother continued walking until early the next morning.  Then they left. Amigo.  Her horse.   Sunrise would state the next step.

  She prayed that night.  “God, either let whatever Amigo has become acute so that we must put him down quickly or leave him with us to be past this…for a long time.”

It was a beautiful sunrise.  Dad had gotten up at three and could see the buckskin standing in the pen.  He waited until early light with the yellow orb poking its northern edge past the skyline.  He went to see. Amigo nickered at him.  There was a packed down clump of dump where he had excreted himself during the night.  The blockage was gone.

   Sadie awoke.  She went to see her horse.

Cindy was going home.  A break from the brown brick and mortar buildings that had been suffocating her these past weeks.  It was not a school holiday nor any ‘name’ officially stamped on a calendar to state “special day.”  It was just a Friday.  A fried out Friday crumpled on the back end of a white, damp week.   She had closed her laptop, leaving it on the table, grabbed her purse and, trialing her winter scarf as she shouldered her coat, slipped through the snow and headed out to Alice, the 1999 red Alero that served as a motorized go cart of transportation.  She hated ‘her,’  but was thankful. Alice started, cold weather be damned.  Like a dog one would walk around with a quick touch to the top of head, she always found time for a quick pat on the dash when turning the key to start and heard the … er,er,er,er,er,er, hrumppppppppppp -p -peeeeeeepppuuuuuurrrr.  Ugly, beastly, cold…dependable.

The drive home took about an hour.  She texted her departure from the ‘ghetto’ saying she should be home around dinner time.  Cindy had that presence to occupy people’s interest in many capacities, an endearing catalog of patented characteristics from which she delighted many.  None more than her mother.  Sandra ‘bounced’ with the news.

Sandra had slipped into the tide waters of life with her daughter’s absence.  She took each and every occasion to sift a normal day in casual loneliness.  She chose not to artificially introduce activities but became more engrossed with her agronomic activities.  She had five acres to produce as desired within a tight budget.  She had entrusted Cindy (during the ‘home’ years) to be of assistance, but the germination of endearing quaintness to such activities never solidified.  The City was where Cindy felt her vibe.  Sandra had not just ‘lost’ her to college! She would never be back for good.

Being together for these quick getaways always brought an uptick to the norm.  Such did this ‘Text.’  Sandra cast about to fix something that fell in the ‘like’ menu for her daughter. Her phone buzzed.  “On the road.”

Jacob had become dispirited.  Nine, he lived with his father in a four season cabin which sat near a small lake.  He could not remember a time when there had been a dock.   A canoe paralleled the shore.  Jacob used it as a bench, his “wonder” seat.  He would sit as the elders “in the gate,” responsible for the direction of his world.  His mind was shaping around thought and cognizant definition of this world.  Experience had not been kind. His mother had lit out when he was five, the reason(s) never really explained.  He took it that she was just gone.  When she had “rung up,” those occasions were muffled in a false acceptance.  Or so it seemed.  He dismissed them as one discards an unwanted ‘catch’ back into the water, not to be thought of again.  That is what ‘she’ was, a fishing outing once, maybe twice a year, with the memories tossed back.

There had not been a second.  His father sought companionship with the bottle.  He was a hard crusted individual who took to serving himself.  He had ‘ladyships,’ but nothing beyond flesh. Jake watched them come and go.  He found ways to accelerate disappearance on those occasions.  They became infrequent. The bottle became more preeminent.  Jake ‘cast’ about for companionship.

He had persuaded to obtain a pound dog.  Actually, he just brought one home, Jubilee.  He kept him out of sight for as long as he could.  The persuasion came when Jube was discovered. A black eye and slurred curse were the means.  Jube took up residence in a clapboard house Jacob built outside his bedroom window.  A strong chain was insisted upon.  Jacob cringed whenever he locked Jube up.

He slept on Jacob’s bed.  The bottle the silencer.

Jube was clusters of brown patches flecked upon a white background.  He aged out around one.  Small to midsize, he lapped up fun.  The pedigree was one from the working stock breed.  Which was hard to guess.  He was Jacobs from the start and the two hung together in the constant.

Cindy was in eleventh grade at the time, had a boyfriend and played three sports.  In the summer she worked at the Dairy Queen.  Her life was full as was her relationship with Sandra. They, too, were a twosome, Sandy having lost her husband to some illness that Jacob never could remember.  Figured it was cancer and left it there.

He met the Charais ladies as he walked home from school. Detention confined transportation to one’s family and being picked up by Dad never was an option.   Sandra had been outside weeding when the brown hair crown bumped its way past the curved drive.  She had seen him before, but never had entered any type of connection.  Now she lifted up from her kneeling position and whipped her brow with the back of a gloved hand.

“Hello!”

Jacob heard the call and gave a sideways glance.

“Hi, my name is Sandra.”

He stopped and looked up the slight hill toward the house where the kneeling lady was trying to catch his attention.  Motion stopped.

“Hi.”

Sandra had gotten up to her full length and moved down slowly to administer the greeting in total.  Jacob waited.  They shook hands.  He followed her to the house and there he had some homemade cookies, pop, and met Cindy.

That was the beginning of Jacob and Jube becoming fixtures around the Charais home. The canoe became remote to visits.  The next few years found a slightly sulky introverted boy hanging around a middle aged woman and her daughter, when and if one were to be found at home.  Jacob immersed himself in their lives.  And they enjoyed him.  One could have factored in a “puppy love” connection, but it never was of that nature.  Encouraged friendship developed love in each’s paradigm.  And the truth or what each felt was timeless.

When Cindy left for college, Jacob was less visible.  But as Sandra worked a full job, he found that the time he was there, making himself useful to her was interesting if not fun.  He began helping with chores, mostly outside, but an inside one thrown in here and there.

There were shadows in him that missed Cindy.

Cindy rolled up the drive, Alice spitting black juice out the exhaust  Sandra whipped her hands with a dish towel and leaned against the counter preparing to meet her daughter. The wait was short.  Her two dogs lit up the night with barks of delight.  The princess was home.

“Hey Mom.”

“Hi sweetheart.”  They embraced.  The next couple of hours were spent over chicken fettuccine, cable comedy and cards.

“What are the plans for tomorrow?” asked her daughter as she counted 15/2, 15/4….

“The temp is supposed to be almost forty, and here it is February!  I hoped to get some of the vines cut away so I can get at that big Elm to cut down in the Spring.”

Cindy was not an agronomist and never pretended to be.   Gardens?  Buy what you need. But she came out with an almost explosive “I’ll give you a hand.”

“Really?  O.k.”

They finished the evening with Sandra clocking out shortly after nine and Cindy greeting the new day.  Sandra had made pancakes, completed animal chores and was setting up the equipment for the task ahead when Cindy emerged from her darkened room.

“mmmmmm….pancakes.  Thanks Mom.”

“Your welcome.”

“What time are you going out to that tree?”

“After lunch.  Breakfast for you.  Take your time.  I am going to head out and get set up and start hacking at those vines.  You come on out when you are ready.”

“Sure, ah, ….”

“Honey, just come when you want,” Sandra laughing said.  She knew her daughter.

Jacob started up the gravel road, Jube scenting the day.  It was half past 1:00.  He had been moseying about the cabin for much of the morning.  Actually did some homework. Mrs. Charais had harbored on him he the fact that education was important.  He took to heart her instructive ways and had begun to apply himself.  A  “B” average welcomed the effort.

Sandra Charais was a lady.  Jacob felt good being around her.  Cindy was fun, their interaction over the last three and a half years was combined with Sandra.  A silhouetted family!  Jube loved hanging around.  All the animals.  He was even allowed in the house. .

Even when they just sat on the couch watching the screen and chatting, Jacob felt at peace.  It was  as common as the sun rising that Jacob would check out the Charais house when the availability of time allowed.  Sandra did not always let Jacob stay when he came down.  He understood, mostly.

Cindy was a product of her times, completely arrayed to use any of the digital opportunities that existed.  She now was into videoing events.  Not at great length, but snippets that could be either kept and shown to a friend or posted in the social media.

She emerged from the house decked out in cast off outdoor wear of Sandra’s’.   Laughing as to what her mother thought she sauntered down to the area her mother was beginning to employ her hatchet.

“Mom, let me do that.’

“What?!”

“Yeah, let me smack away at those vines and you can pull them away once cut.”

“Are you well??”

“I am well, alive, and I would like to do this.”

Cindy loved being with her mother.  She came home to do just that.  And the idea of helping her made her feel warm inside.  She was happy.

Jacob appeared about the time Cindy cut through a third vine.  He stopped and surveyed the scene.

“Hi”

Jube ran up to Sandra and jumped on her legs.

“Hey stranger,” called out Cindy, “How you been?”

“Good.”

Sandra let out a short giggle at Jube and looked up at Jacob.

“Jacob.  Just in time to help us with all these vines!!”

Jacob looked at the intertwined group of barked vines extending from the elm.  He never had really noticed them before accepting how the mass blocked an immediate view of the Charais house.  Now he surveyed them for what they proposed.   A natural mess of nature.

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you grab the hand saw and you and Cindy cut while I drag.  That sound good?”

“Sure.”  Jacob moved to the tool bucket and grabbed the saw.  He looked at the ladies.  Both were geared for outside work, but one looked natural and the other had attributes of a scarecrow.  He smiled.

“Nice clothes Cindy.  How those gloves working for you?”

“Shut up and get over her Jacob,” Cindy exclaimed.

He did, bringing the saw.  He looked at Jube and commanded him to hang around.  It was a command that was so generic but Jube had come to understand…stay in eye contact of Jacob.  He was a pleasing dog.

For about two hours the college freshman and the sixth grader hacked, sawed and pulled at the vines.  Mom kept dragging the cuttings away from the area and piled them in the low area to the north of the property.  Bantering occurred but they put most of there effort to the task.  Then Jacob looked at something ‘different.’

A singular vine hung from a stout branch.  It had developed a natural loop at the bottom, about three feet off the ground.  He went and pulled on the vine.  He held tight.  He pulled again, afterward placing his foot in the loop.   He put all his weight on the vine.  It held.  Pulling the vine back from the lip of the small rock wall that fringed the front lawn there by the elm, next to the drive, Jacob walked as far as the vine would let him.  He held it out, taunt, and then jumped in the air placing one foot in the loop.  The barked rope swung out over the edge and when it had lengthened ‘out’ receded back to the starting point.  Jacob stayed with it and after returning a second time he extracted himself to the ground.

“Oh!  Neat, let me give it a go, Jacob.”

“Sure.”

Cindy grabbed hold and let her self be airborne.  She laughed out loud.

The took turns and Sandra came back from a trip to the pile to watch.

“Why don’t you push each other,” she asked.

“Great idea Mom.  Jacob, get ready!

He did, holding on to the vine and speeding off.  As he returned, Cindy renewed the speed by grabbing hold of him and running toward the lip.  He went even faster as she let go and smiled.

Then, as they took turns pushing and riding, Cindy got got her over-sized glove caught between the vine and Jacob’s foot.  As she went to release him, the speeding Tarzan pulled her along until she tripped over the wall into a pile of wet snow.  Jacob saw her fall.  The return trip would be right where Cindy was.

“Stay down he yelled.”  Cindy remained in the wetness, giggling delightfully as the vine with Jacob swung back over head.  He jumped off awkwardly and landed butt end in the start zone.  Cindy was emerging over the wall, laughing.

“let me go get my phone and video us!”

Sandra was standing, hands on hips, mirth spread her length and her smile wide.  “That sounds like a good idea,” she offered.

“No.”  Jacob had stood and “jollied” the whole up.  “Let’s make memories.”

Cindy looked at him.  Not quite knowing how to respond, she let out an “okay,” and then, “It’s my turn.”  She pulled herself up over the stone wall and grabbed the vine.  “That sounds good.  Give me a memory!”

Jacob pushed her hard.

Sandra looked at Jacob.  Her smile increased.  What an expression she thought.  She took in the two of them for a few more minutes and then suggested that they complete the work.

The vines were gone in four hours, with three very tired workers.  They went in the house, all three, and began recovering with beverage and eats.  The sofa and fluff chair never felt so good.  They watched T.V., the talk minimal.  Then Jacob said he had to go.

He left to thankful goodbyes.

Cindy had no idea that that would be the last time she would see him.  Sandra was the last one.  When Jacob and his father were foreclosed on and headed to the cities,  Jacob asked if Jube could stay with her.  Of course.  That was concurred with immediately.  She had given him a big hug and with tears in her eyes watched him walk home for the last time.  She had implored him to call and stay in contact, but it did not happen. When she tried to find out there whereabouts, she hit dead ends.

The years went by.  Cindy became a Physical Therapist, married, and had moved to the west suburbs.  Sandra remained on the five acres, with her animals.  Jubilee had passed at the age of nine.  Sandra buried him in the special animal plot and marked it with his name.  She thought of Jacob.  He might want to see it someday.  When she finished, a memory came to her…a young woman and a boy swinging on a vine.  She so prayed that Jacob had found joy in his life somewhere.

Cindy and her husband were passing through a small town which ran parallel to the great Mississippi, known for its artists and artisans.  They had stopped to get a bite, and while concluding with a homemade ice cream cone and coffee, they browsed a few of the shops.  One had varied prints of pastoral and rural life.  As she moved to her left, her eyes followed.  She stopped, quietly.  The print stared back at her.  It was a winter scene, by a large tree.  In front was a small stone wall.  A young lady was stirrup-ed in a wooded vine, pulled back to its farthest point.  A boy held her, as if in a state of tranquility, poised to give her a great running push.  The girl was looking down at the boy, and he at the ground.  No face could be made out.  But she knew.

The print was named, “making memories.”

 

It was a day to ‘float.’  My arrival was the last entry for any or all of the wedding party.  I had no real responsibility other than to stay out of the way, make sure I was on my mark when Ellie came through the door, crook my arm for her’s to slide through, wait for the dress to be fluffed in back.  Then move forward.  Slowly.  I had two words to say after the saunter down the white aisle; “Amy and I.”

I was ‘in a good place,’ in that my emotions were  in an acceptable range of amplitude. I felt peaceful.  No real excitement…yet.  I suppose one could say, serene.  It sure was different from anything I had experienced before.  As if the nerve endings all decided to put up stop signs and let me observe without experiencing anticipation.  In the moment without knowing what the moment was!  Drifting but anchored.

I had gone to ‘stilts’ (crutches) during deer season, cutting that activity off.  The right leg finally grinding to a halt.  The pain had abated some as I worked to graduate from the two stilts to one in anticipation of the ‘walk.’  My goal, if possible, was to use a cane.  Her elegance deserved it.  No, more, but reality has a way adjusting.  I had abandoned the idea to walk without “helpers” on the merit it would not happen.

Funny how an old old downtown storage facility, the oldest one in the country, was transformed into a throne room of tranquil royalty by the hands of love.  After the endless cycle of pictures, formality accepted, I stood on the old staging area and swept the wedding location with my eyes.  Soft white lights surrounded the flood lights to damper the whiteness.  Neatly arranged white padded chairs were set in semi circle style separated by an isle.  The ‘focus area’ was pillowed with flowing, sheer white draping.  The red brick tone styled in behind. It was a picture waiting for the artist to paint in the final pieces.

I was familiar with ‘stilts’…too familiar.  I could pick up a toothpick with them if need be!  But not for my daughter’s wedding.  I needed to get to the crutch and each day was a workout.

I knew them all, one being my other daughter Sadie.  She was ‘best lady’ or as they say in normal English, Maid of Honor.  How the bridesmaids dresses were chosen to tone with the facilities decor was mesmerizing. Each simplistic in grandeur.  Deep brown styled to each lady manicured in a fashion as to be beauty queens.  Her sister and friends.  But to my eyes they were princesses supreme.

It was in December that the ‘stilts’ were put aside for brief periods and the cane employed.  I was thankful and hopeful.  A dear friend came along side and kept by my side, being there.

The guys…guys are harder to spiff up to the degree the ladies are.  But they certainly complimented this fiefdom well; with light grey suits, dark ties and lightly shaded brown shoes lined in black.

Happiness goes so far in employing image and joy takes that and molds it to another level. The footmen were ready as were the ladies in waiting.  The procession would begin soon.

 A few minutes each day in January I would take steps with no ‘lean tools.’  Not many but some.  There came a day that I went up and down the hallway for about five minutes.  The pain afterward was sharp, but I had done it.  It was still the cane option, but I had walked unabated.

Just before pictures were taken, at my request several weeks earlier, Ellie was brought out for me to meet her in her dress  I had never seen it. The Photographer had me face an old metal wheel standing up against the brick wall in the Foyer.  I was to wait until they said to turn around.  All said I would cry.

“Turn”

I did…cry.

What is it in the emotional system that keeps one from breaking down in total love? Because my heart actually skipped, signalling the tear ducts to let loose, a slow draining down the cheeks signifying unabated love.  She was more glorious than any of the Elf queens in ‘Lord of the Rings.’   She was angelic.  The happiness tears squirmed down one cheek of hers.  I held her.

It was time.

Cheol Oh brought in Grandma and Grandpa.  Their countenance one of excitement held tight.  He then retreated and reemerged with his parents, Jung Woo and We Jung; he stoic and she blinking back tears.

All were becoming excited, you could feel it.  These were truly friends and family.

How does one describe his wife when she literally beams in happiness inside a dark navy blue dress so ‘her’ that I wanted to take her and marry again?  I just did I guess.  Cheol Oh brought her down and up toward her chair.  We made eye contact.  I teared.

I was nimble on the crutches.  The cane was smoothed out.  The walk was a tumble.  I felt good about using the cane.  I used it in the rehearsal and it did not deter from Ellie I thought.  We could make it work.

I was ready to make a go of it.

I had no clue of what happened , but it did.  After the pictures, while in the dressing room, the young whipper snappers slicking up and enjoying the ‘work up,’ my leg throbbed.  It felt weak.  I had the ‘stilts’ with me and for a moment I thought I would need them.  I stared at the wall.  No.  I finished dressing and went out into the hall.  The procession was ten minutes away.  I journeyed to my spot, cane in hand.  There I kept moving back and forth, near one small table.  My leg felt stronger.  The throbbing stopped.  I walked back and forth and somewhere on that path I placed the cane on the table.

The procession began, and I moved, slowly now so to not disturb all eye contact reserved for the princes and princess.  They came, supremely opulent.

The doorway from where all emerged was to the north side of the stage floor.  Entrants would sweep slowly north to south and then make a 90 degree turn to pass the through the guests sitting on both sides of the isle.  The walk down the stage to ‘center’ isle was perhaps 200 feet.  A nice entry pattern.  As each had emerged from the door, the next stepped up for their turn.  All had gone until left standing immersed in white back lighting was my daughter.

I moved slowly to my ‘mark’ and waited, watching her elegance move toward me.  I did not catch her features until she was close enough to take my left arm.  When I looked at her I saw a woman ready to marry the man of her dreams.  Now we were moving, together, slowly, down the white carpet.

I rode a magic carpet. Free!

Funny, really.  How can I not have seen this coming?  A glorious separation, profoundly sentimental, yet ‘jacked’ up with emotional tidings of thankfulness.  She will walk with me one last time, officially, today; the man of her life; now being transferred.

We will come together at the back and wisp our way  between the well wishers, family and friends all.  The agony of who is in and isn’t will not have an affect this day, this walk.  I will be with my daughter.

I will see her for the first time at 12:20 p.m.  Ten minutes before her husband ‘to be’ does.  I like that.  I was there when her mother first pronounced her beautiful.  She will be when she walks in that room. And I will go to her.  I should be first,  but not overstay.  It is time to relinquish.

I really have few functions to perform.  I will be able to take all of her in and see the love she has for many be funneled to her ‘one.’  The ceremony will be simple but elegant and she the most beautiful woman in the world.

Life, what it can be or is, allows hands on guidance for such a slim shaving of time. Then ‘hands off.’  When I let go do I lose my little girl?  No, really?  At sixty five why do I have minor feelings as this?

 

It took me two weeks to pick out the  Father/Daughter song.  Two weeks!   Then it settled upon me one day and I knew it was right.  Right for me and hopefully her.  “This island earth” by the Nylons, recorded in the late 70’s.  I used it as the background music of a video that I took on a houseboat cruise with special friends and my father.  Dad passed years ago.  I have a picture of him holding her, she laughing.  The song has meaning, long stretched out meaning.  And it is suggestive of the path before her; them.  I will hold her.  Just she and I.  And the melody will immerse us for a little more than three minutes.  Three.  It will be three of the sweetest minutes of my life.

Of course I ‘lose’ my little girl.  It is the essence of the ceremony, this day.  I know it will be emotional.  But I look forward to it.  ‘Flushing’ tears of love and happiness with no regret.  A cleansing if you will.  Deep down I will be good, really good.

Off I go.  The ladies are there.  My instructions?  Feed the animals, let the fire go out, bring your suit and don’t forget your shoes.  Drive safe. Minimal.  See?   I get to arrive and prepare to witness a wedding that for the first time will touch me beyond any measuring point.  Because it is not a wedding for me.  It is a love event that drives home the desire of God for a man and a woman.

My little girl is a woman today.  And she will belong to someone else sometime mid afternoon.  I can live with that.  I now find myself purposed to move to the shadows, willing to step out when needed. Let go and love her; just a little farther away is all.

I can not wait to see her in that dress.   And when we make that walk on the white carpet, She will shine and I will glow.

I love you Bomber.

Around 1999-2000 buick made the car for the future.  They slapped in a 205 6 cylinder 3.8 liter engine with a standard luxury pack, room to stretch legs and enough power to get the windows almost all the way down in cold weather.

It had a sleek enough look that one could pretend it was something different, but Buick always added their emblem, standing statuesque in the middle of the hood.  Not worth breaking off for money but perhaps to hide identity.  They then placed all these cars out in Roswell, put aliens behind the steering wheel to test drive and prepared to release them to the “streets” in 12 -15 years and then only to people over 60, preferably 65.  In fact Congress passed a law stating that you should have one when you turn 60 and must procure one at 65. Trade your car in and get one, excepting if you worked for the government.

And their ‘marketing’ worked!  Everywhere you drive you see these magnificent steel steeds coursing the roads, humping along at at about a 25 mile clip in town and perhaps breaking 45 on the freeway.  

Standard driver physicality is either: a rumpled lady peeking beneath the top of the steering wheel just over the dashboard  or a guy wearing a hat and ear mics, the right one left out just in case he has to listen to his ‘passenger.’

She is not color blind but it can take her a minute to determine if the light really has changed ‘shades of grey.’  She might cut the corner tight, but that is the other drivers problem.  And if she gets lost, she’ll just stop mid street and see if the Bakery sign is close by.

He knows he is in control and that all other cars will do his bidding. Damn the torpedoes full steam ahead.  He might accelerate a little faster, but the average speed does not change much from the ladies.

Go to any small town and you swear you kicked a ground bee nest and out came these Buicks and their ‘maniac’ drivers.  They are like Harley Jocks, with the hand low; “hey, we are together Bro.”  Except they just bump into each other instead.  Keeps local body shops working over time and insurance agents pulling their shades closed if anyone older than 50 is seen approaching.   Those pretty ladies in the front desks aren’t receptionists but look – outs!

The local Thrift shops have parking lots that resemble car sales one’s, exclusive for these wondrous machines.  No one parks between the lines and more than a few have tangled bumpers.  There would be more arguments except most cannot remember which car is theirs.  Or they forget what they were arguing about.  A few might cross the street where the Cinema is and see if they can find their car.  Pity any0ne who forgot to lock their doors.

I have to procure one today.  Think I’ll take it to a shop and see if I can get the color changed.  Can’t be purple as that is the color for the 60 -65 year olds.  These are not mandatory and many try to hold off getting one as the local ‘gendarmerie’ like to pull these over to make sure someone over 65 is not in the wrong color.

Blue.  I”ll get it changed to Blue.  But then I will probably be ostracized. Or jailed.  Better to be jailed then to get a “look!”  What the heck,  I have been stopping in the middle of the street for years.  Maybe they won’t notice.  I think I will take to this new ordinance very well.  Just would like it to be Blue.

The Beatles dramatized simplistically Penny Lane and its culture in a song.  Most remember the music more than the words.  It is the way of Beatle music.  The lyrics flare but attract satisfaction.  Songs are poems one peals. The story comes out in the juice.  And the music is tantalizing.

Penny Lane is real.  So is Peggy lane.  It is not a song though.  Could be.  Just has not been made into one.  It is a kaleidoscope of stories blending into time.  Each drifting off to find its own end…and beginning.  It was framed in the after years of WWII, when suburbia met head on with cities, the desire for expansion to accommodate the new era of youth, veterans returning to a new world power that was in the throes of reentering time to refit peace.  Education, jobs, cars…all took off with the muscle of the new America and its youthful expectant population.  Nothing was beyond limits.

Peggy Lane was part of the first expansion westward of the old resort city of White Bear Lake.  White Bear had stretched itself southward earlier, but that move was more a blend into the greater area of St. Paul.  Though called White Bear down to County Rd E, it never was but a step child.  The population did not really grab an identity.  The two sections became rivals not friends.  More a threat from St. Paul than an inclusion.

The move to the west had the look of sameness of character.  Most were ramblers set up in a section perhaps 40 acres square.  The streets had girls names: Dorothy, Peggy, Sharon, Carolyn, and Sandra.  It was plotted and set on the west boundary of Old Town and pushed to the east shore of Birch Lake.  It seemed to find a coexistence which did not interfere with the core families that generated back to Al Capone, who had vacationed there.  The “greased” hood and its interbred populace treated the section as really nothing more than a happenstance.  No great push back nor hug of acceptance.  It coexisted. Its newness attempted to gain traction.  He was about six when they moved in, on Peggy Lane.

His father had returned from the “Big One” shortened on one side by amputation.  It interfered not with the common work ethic that prevailed with the countenance of available work.  America was surging forward and the flow of workers intertwined.  These were the younguns of the depression, so work was a most favorable expression.  While Dad prevailed to cover the bills, Mom was making the now familiar Rambler into a home.  She was the homemaker, the one that was frowned on latter by the feminists.  Each of her four children were given every opportunity to avail an activity.  He fell into cub scouts and then boy scouts, the tribal factions popular in the those flag waving times.  He did well. It was his distinct nature to do so.

He believed in himself.  Not a  frothing of self adulation, but just a deeply felt acknowledgement that if he wanted to do something, he could, or perhaps better said, would.  He carried  a distinct ambition that was just layered beneath a tempered ego.   Peggy Lane allowed him the satisfaction to experience the flavor of success mingled with the downturns of broken hopes.

But the downturns never pushed him back from where he wanted to go.  Might take him in a different direction, but he always could see the ‘tree line’ of his desires.  Butch, his knucklehead friend from across the street helped him to see the craziness of existence while still being a friend,  And Lars, who lived on the fringe of Old Bearville, kept a committed friendship while both tried convergent and divergent paths.  Growing up where a bike took you where you wanted, even if you had to fix a flat tire or chain;  it was nice to venture beyond just the neighborhood while maintaining a fixation with one.  Gave great stability.  That and the family who integrated with itself, exploring and accepting one another.

The separation of ‘old Bearville’ and the southern end continued into his junior high days.  The south side had its own junior high as did the north.  Mandatory attendance to the north one helped to create blend.  And spiked up the rivalry with the south.  Central in the north and Sunrise to the south.  The split actually allowed for greater capacity to cultivate athletic desires.  He continued to pursue his love of hockey while participating in other sports as they migrated into their seasons.

He was small and being so had its good and bad.  It allowed him to avail himself in such activities that lightness, speed, and endurance prevailed.  It hindered him as the grades marched on and he found himself playing physicals sports against larger players.  He just found another path toward fondness.

Hockey, a great equalizer when it came to ability, allowed him continued participation.  He loved the sport. And he had his ‘times.’  However, when he reached high school and the two junior highs came together to become the Bears of White Bear Lake, he found the footing harder to obtain.  It deterred him not.  In Jr. High, he had found out what it was like to be on the outside when he had tried out for the Legion team to represent White Bear only to be turned away.  The last one cut.   He kept playing, on his own.  With his friends from Peggy Lane.  He played for the shear enjoyment, while begrudging not.

And he had a knack.  To prevail.  Football was out of the question.  He became captain of the soccer team.  He kept playing hockey and found himself getting a role on the hockey team his senior year.  He worked hard.  But where he shot forward was in his lesser loves.

Soccer, where he became captain his senior year.  Skiing, a jitterbug complete.  Running. He could run.  Golf captivated his drive and desire.  He became good.  He just loved playing.  And he tried almost everything..

More importantly, he was the kind of guy that one liked having around.  He did not sugar coat the obvious, but he did not allow it to smear the potential of the next activity.  Teams need such at their core.  Those that are there in love of game and friendships are important.

Peggy Lane kept central to who he was.  Grounded in the ethics of hard work and discipline.  It was because of his work ethics and classroom push that he received a full scholarship to the University of Minnesota, bequeathed upon him over many more toted individuals.  Golf was the underwriter of the  scholarship.  He was in ‘life’ for the long haul, its grandness.  He never quivered from work or play.  Peggy Lane served as a backstop.

He married his high school girlfriend.  It failed.  That his heart was wrenched one can imagine, but it was not torn out.  He had the ability to shed a tear, whip the dust off his knees from where he had fallen and get back into life.  It was a time where all were succumbed to their own existence and as such the prevailing winds.  He had learned that success was not determined by any but oneself, no matter the ‘mantel.’

3M hailed him those early years and he put in his time.  But after years of answering to people he grew less fond.  He had found that he wanted to be his own.  He moved into Real Estate, finding traction and success before cycle downturns.  When they came he reached back and hung on.  Realizing that he was more fit to prevail in the Mortgage side, he made his way through those tests.

He had started life with a deaf right ear.  No matter, he compensated with his left remarkably.  Even his smile creased toward the good one.  And it is a smile that catches one with genuineness.  He never used the blankness as a crutch.  Perhaps he saw how his father pressed forward.  It would not make or break him.

His freshman year at Minnesota, a great collegiate hockey institution, he led the freshman in scoring during the try outs.  Outsiders shook their heads.  He just smiled and hoped.  He was cut.  Mattered not as he proceeded forward.

His friendship always seemed real, but he did not allow it to trump what and where he was going.  When he was with you, he gave you himself.  When he was not, he was gone. Reliability did underscore his nature and when one came into his presence it was always acceptable.  Enemies were non existent.  He was accepted for himself.  And when he took on the jibes thrown his way, he parried them with intelligence.  Made others smile.

His greatest achievement was marrying again and fathering two wonderful children.  With a wife that stood by him and children that respected him, he fought through the ebb and flows of the mortgage banking system.  Continues to do so.  And the family is fine.

And Peggy Lane?  His mom still resides in the same home, having buried her husband three years ago.  She continues to be a Mom.  His siblings are good.  And the growth of White Bear has expanded well beyond that 40 acres.  But the ‘girls’ are still there.  Peggy Lane, where he began his life and was fortified to accomplish still has the signs at the two ends of the street.   White letters on green background.  Could be a song;

Peggy lane is the street where I got my start.

Peggy lane is always with me in my heart.

All the people who come and go, they will never know,

the ebb and flow…..

It is a happy picture.  Thankful.  ‘Pa’ sits right middle holding his oldest grandson.  To his right his wife of 35 years cuddles a miracle of life.  On either side are the kids and spouses, with the only granddaughter looking away. The smiles are genuine, real, communal.

He took the mound and tossed his warmup pitches.  It was AA camp; Spring training. Players moved through the various camps dependent on age, status, injuries.  One wanted to time the “music” so to sit in the ‘Show’ dugout when the music stopped.  The dance was not choreographed for undrafted players.  But one always hoped.

Two outs into the first inning, he faced a former inmate of immense skills who played on the ‘big team,’  working his way ‘back up’ from a nagging injury.  He threw a curve outside. Ball one.  There was no way he was going to throw this guy a fastball on the plate.  It would circle the planet once it left the bat.  A slider caught the corner for a strike.  Another slider missed.  He let fly his fastball controlling it off the plate, outside.  It was hammered foul down the right field sideline.  The man smiled.  A dare. Another curve taken for ball three. The count full.   He could walk him.  Let it go easy.  It was not his way. He took the sign from the catcher.  Shrugged him off three times.  Finally, he nodded, slightly.  His windup was smooth and the arm whipped up and down, releasing the fastball. That was what the batter thougth. His swing was ahead of the ball by two feet. Change up. The punk kid in AA dared to throw him a change up.  Strike three.  The man glared out walking back to the dugout, seminal composure from his brief stay in the Pen.

The next time up, the he tried to sneak a fastball past on the first pitch believing the ‘man’ would not think the he would throw one.  The ‘Inmate’ crushed it deep Center.  He smirked as he rounded the bases.  He watched the jog.  He kept his eyes locked on the stocky figure.  As the home run trot rounded third, the man gave him a look.

He smiled.  The ‘Major’ smiled back.

He took his teammates fishing every chance he could those summers.  He matriculated to the humidity for three years, then hung up the cleats, never making it out of AA.  He did not have the big contract.  Beef was in demand.  He was skinny.  He landed back in college to finish his degree, married his high school girlfriend, which was never a sure thing.  But he knew he could go nine innings and he won her in the eighth.   Threw her a Change up.

He had worked since childhood for jingle in his pocket.  He wasn’t cheap, but thought on what was necessary.  Painting, factory stations…anything that enabled him to pay his way. And he did not spend.  A cane pole and bobber was all he needed to fish.  The old 870 Remington his father had given him still pumped well.  He kept his things working, clean. They lasted.  His knives were kept sharp.  As his mind.  He might take time to work through a problem, a situation, but he could go nine.  And still be effective.  And when the answer came, inevitably it was a change up.  Kept all guessing.  And thrown for a strike.

Out of uniform, he tried teaching.  The classroom squeezed him.  Education was rigged around rules and regulations while the high energy of seemingly uninterested adolescence sagged his enthusiasm.  No, he was not made as his wife, a genuine artist in this field.  She would break the box open within the confines of expected duty and make kids shine.  The public domain could not hold her and the private sector grabbed that talent and gave her all the “paints and brushes” she wanted.  She became a superstar.

He never gave up baseball.  There was always a town team, a Rec team, usually two or three, who wanted and needed his talent.  He pitched on while finding traction in the Insurance Industry.  Here he showcased his talent and made strides.  But he was not a ‘big league contract’ and found himself counter to prevailing sentiment, though he was correct on the come.  He struck out too many who were under ‘contract.’  Not good!  They never caught up to his change up.  He shrugged, ‘showered’ and looked elsewhere.  Each new ‘Park’ seemingly could not compliment his abilities, so he took his game where he knew he could produce. He made his own.

He became an independent insurance agent whose success helped turn a flagging agency into success.  The owner allowed him to pitch his way.  His ‘change’ helped turn it from dull existence to exciting experience.  It was a never simple, but he could go nine.

His first son died in his arms, a genetic condition leaving all the little bones broken when delivered.  They had a healthy son two years later.  With the odds stacked against, they adopted their daughter.  The children excelled while life’s disappointments were meted out.  His son never got the ‘look’ from his coaches in high school until his senior year when he lead his baseball team to State.  One coach, with tears, thanked him for bringing joy back to the game.  The son carried on and found himself outside the parameters of a delinquent coach while lacing his skates in college.  He brushed the game aside, turned to his artistic talents and produced a DVD of his own songs.  He put on a farewell concert for the school and played all the instruments himself, a different one for each song.  The kitchen help cried.

The daughter was hugely successful on the mound, ice and hardwood.  She carried her friends to State tournaments in two different sports.  It was on the mound where her personality truly displayed itself.  She was in peace, while making others not.

It was somewhere during this time that he had to “go to the mound” and insist she get the next batter out, or she was coming “out.”  A hard time for the family, but she pitched out of the inning and finished strong, becoming a police officer, wife and mother.  He had shown her what a change up could do mixed in with a heater.  It was this lesson that produced tenacity and love which enabled she and her husband to nurture and love a 1lb 8oz baby and bring him home.

A family that has endured and produced friendships, loyalty and love.  One that placed footings of Faith, in Jesus Christ.  He has entered the eighth.  He was made to go nine. And throw the ‘Change.’